Iron House
by Lilliana Greenleaf
Summary: This tale is not for the faint of heart. The world was a mess by the 1920's, and Aletheon Vulkan was at the top of it. Blond hair, blue eyes, he was perfect. But Vulkan has a secret, one that could be the undoing of the Nazi party that loves him so much, and could mean his own death. What good is having the world at your finger tips when you're trapped in an iron house?
1. Chapter 1

The tea was so sweet and light, Aletheon could almost be led to believe that it wasn't poisoned. But of course, he knew better than that. The man in front of him watched with bright eyes peering out from the folds of his face, his gray mustache twitching over his fat lips. He vaguely reminded Aletheon of an old, fat weasel.

"So," Aletheon set his cup down, then put his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his folded hands. His hypnotic blue eyes scanned the man's, his soft lips, a warm pink against his ivory skin, parted slightly as he chose his words. "What exactly was it that you put in my tea, Mr. Trysk?"

Needless to say, Mr. Trysk looked surprised. He puffed out his cheeks, his mustached quivering as if he were insulted, and he leaned back in his seat, his chubby fingers gripping the arms of the chair. "Sir, I would never-" "Don't lie to me," Aletheon was calm about the whole situation. He stood, his long, delicate fingers brushing the table cloth as his chair moved back. His eyes were calm, not betraying a single emotion. "I simply wish to know, so I may know how to combat it." He began to walk around the table towards the man, his shoes falling silently on the plush carpet. "Do you wish me dead?" He was halfway around the table now. "Do you wish me a prisoner?" His lips twitched into a slight smirk which made Trysk very uncomfortable in more ways that one.

"Or," he stood behind him, leaning down to whisper in his ear. "Do you have darker motives? Perhaps the substance in my tea won't harm me at all, no, but you will, wont you, Mr. Trysk?" He moved away, walking around to the other side of the chair, his pale fingers trailing over the high arch of the dark ebony carving. "Your wife is no longer good enough. She, like you, has grown old, tired, and weary. But you are not weary. You are a man."

The woman who was standing in the doorway got a furious look on her face. She was a kindly woman, Mrs. Trysk, but she knew her husband no longer loved her, now that she was useless in bed. She could say nothing, because in their society, women held their tongues in the presence of men. That didn't mean that she wouldn't berate her husband later. However, Aletheon wasn't paying much attention to her. He turned back to face Mr. Trysk, who was quite red in the face, but he didn't look ashamed at all. "Yes," the old weasel replied. "You are correct. She is far too old, and she has grown ugly in her old age." He leaned forward, his fat arms bulging in the white button up shirt that was too small for him.

"But you, my beautiful friend, you are a different creature entirely."

Aletheon let out a laugh. Unlike most main characters, his laugh was not like bells. Yes, it was light and sweet and hypnotic, but not like bells. It was more like a bubbling babbling creek, quite pleasant to listen to, but ready to wipe out the forest in a flood of destruction without a moment's notice. "You're forgetting, Mr. Trysk," He turned around to face him, now halfway around the other side of the table. His royal blue tie matched his eyes wonderfully. "This is 1926. Homosexuality is illegal in Germany. You wouldn't want to go to camp, would you?"

Trysk's mustache twitched wildly, as if it were a squirming squirrel on his face. Aletheon turned away before he could speak. "Of course, if you did have your way with me, no one would believe me, because we're business rivals. No one would believe Mrs. Trysk, because she's just a woman, and no one would believe your butler because he has no tongue. You're a clever man, aren't you, Mr. Trysk?" He sat back down in his own seat and crossed one leg over the other. "You've used a quick-degrading drug that will be gone by the time you let me go, am I correct?"

Trysk nodded. Of course he couldn't deny it. Aletheon chuckled and spoke coyly, "so how long did you plan on extending my stay? What would it take to temporarily satisfy your..." He cleared his throat. "Craving?" Trysk had the look of a man who has won a battle before it's begun. "A week." "A week? How would you explain my absence to my dear father?"

Trysk stroked his mustache. "He doesn't know you're here." Aletheon nodded, "that is true, but he will come looking. After all, his beautiful son is very valuable to him." Trysk scoffed, "there is no way in hell that you are the son of that wretched bastard. He's far too ugly, even the prettiest woman on Earth could not create you with _him,_ " he spat with disgust. "What does he do to you, boy? Even he cannot resist your charm. It's intoxicating."

Aletheon chuckled, "if I didn't know any better, Mr. Trysk, I would call that a flirtatious comment. My father is far too old and focused to participate in such activities, and he is a very busy man." Trysk looked triumphant, "but you don't deny that he is not your father." Aletheon shrugged, "I wouldn't know. He says he is, and I am inclined to believe him." Aletheon leaned his head back in apparent boredom. "I hate to inform you, Mr. Trysk, but your drugs will not work on me."

"Nonsense, boy, how old are you? Twenty? Old enough to have some sense." Trysk scoffed again. "That's the strongest elixir on the market, and you drank a whole cup." Aletheon smiled knowingly, "I am only a month into nineteen, Mr. Trysk. Besides, even if your drugs did take effect, you would not be around to use them." He snapped his fingers, his smile turning to a triumphant grin.

Two German soldiers entered, Mrs. Trysk stepped out of the doorway to let them pass. They wore red armbands with the swaztica on their military uniforms. Another man in a black SS uniform with the same armband entered, his face one of stern disgust. "What is the meaning of this?!" Trysk tried to get his fat self out of his chair in a rush, and was huffing and puffing by the time he managed.

"Mr. Thaddeus Trysk, you are under arrest for illegal trading, use of illegal drugs, rape, attempted rape, assault, and homosexuality." There was no argument. The two soldiers in green grabbed either of Trysk's arms, and he was dragged away, cursing and shouting and carrying on. He even had the audacity to swear revenge.

The SS soldier nodded his head to Aletheon, "thank you for your help. We've been trying to prove this for two years now." Aletheon waved his hand dismissively, "it was no trouble, sir. Heil Hitler," he saluted, the soldier returned the salute and left. Aletheon approached Mrs. Trysk, who looked like a huge weight had been taken off her shoulders. "Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs. Trysk. You've brought a subhuman to justice and have relieved me of a rival." She smiled sorrowfully, "oh, sweet boy. The weight of the world is on you." She patted his head like a child and gave him a cookie. Aletheon ate it happily; chocolate meringues were his favourite cookie.

* * *

Ludwig took a long drag of his cigarette and exhaled, watching the cloud of smoke fade away into the evening sky. All was quiet in the garden he waited in, though he could hear the wagon truck running in the driveway. The stone steps beneath his feet were marble, and were just a prelude to the grandeur of the house. Ludwig briefly wondered who would own it next.

His peace was interrupted by loud cursing and the grunts of two soldiers dragging a fat man out of his home and towards the truck that would take him to his new residence, likely a concentration camp. Ludwig watched with mild curiosity as he was dragged by, and hoisted into the truck with a great amount of effort. After being cuffed and secured, the soldiers jumped inside the truck and drove off.

The other member of the SS, Anaheim, walked out of the house, watching the truck disappear out of the main gates and down to the road that would take Trysk to his doom. "Beilschmidt, the task is done." Ludwig nodded, "good, and the young Vulkan?" Anaheim shrugged and lit his own cigarette. "He's fine. It seems he really was immune to the drug. The Vulkans are a good ally to have in these troubled times. The boy seems to have more sense than his stubborn father." Ludwig took a short drag, blowing out the smoke through his nose. It burned, but for some reason Ludwig still liked to do it. "The old man will die soon," Anaheim mused, breathing in through the cigarette. "When Aletheon takes over his father's connections, we will know everything about everyone who is important in the modern world."

"You put a lot of faith in me," The two turned their heads at a new voice behind them. Ludwig watched Aletheon approach with a cookie in his hand. Anaheim nodded, "yes, your support is important to the Nazi party. The intelligence you give us has already led to the defeat of several nations and the possibility of an invasion in France. Without it, it would be another year before such things were possible." Ludwig elbowed him, "close your big mouth, Anaheim." Anaheim laughed, "lighten up, Ludwig, young Mr. Vulkan is no one to fear."

"On the contrary, sir," Aletheon had mischief in his eyes. "You should fear everyone, or at least be wary. I have no intention of betraying you, but there are others that might. Times are not easy, and trust must be earned, not inherited." Anaheim cleared his throat, "I'm aware." He offered Aletheon a cigarette, but the boy refused. "I don't smoke, thank you."

They stood in silence for a moment, until Ludwig spoke again. "Anaheim, we should report back. The scum has been revealed. We have no further business here." Anaheim nodded. "Vulkan, would you like a ride? It's a long way to the nearest station." Aletheon nodded, "thank you, sir." He followed Anaheim to the sleek black car waiting just down the drive. Ludwig took a final breath of his cigarette and dropped it onto the marble. He left it there to burn.


	2. Chapter 2

The world was an ugly place, but never had it been uglier than in November of 1939. Ludwig knew that, and yet, he continued to be surprised by the new monstrosities the world produced. Ludwig stood tall and proud, the perfect soldier, as several men, criminals and rebels against the Nazi Regime, knelt before him and begged for his mercy.

Mercy was not his to give.

Ludwig's superior came up beside him, glancing down at the prisoners with obvious disgust. "Beilschmidt," he sad sternly. "Look at them, and tell me what you see." Ludwig replied firmly, "I see filth, scum, to be cleaned off of the Earth." "Very good." His superior looked around at the crowd around the square. Some of them were calling for the blood of the traitors, but most just stared, either too hungry or too afraid to speak. Times were rough, but that was going to change. They had a new leader now.

"Give the order." Ludwig nodded and turned his gaze up to the soldiers behind the men, who were aiming guns at them. He raised his hand, ready to let it drop, when there was a shriek and a woman ran forward, dressed in rags, and threw herself over one of the men. "Please, sir, don't kill him! He doesn't mean it, he was forced into rebelling! They threatened to kill him!"

"Tell me, woman," Ludwig stepped aside as his superior approached her. "Which does your husband fear more? The rebels, or us?" The woman looked up at him with wide eyed terror. Her husband tried to tell her to go back, but she wouldn't. "He fears the rebels." The superior officer chuckled, holding his hands behind his back. "And which do you fear more?" She gulped, wondering where this line of questioning was going. "The rebels. They're heartless."

"Wrong choice." He leaned down until he was right in the woman's face. "The rebels may be heartless, but they are also spineless. The Nazi's have a steel heart, titanium spine, and an iron fist." He stood and addressed the crowd. "We will show you what happens to traitors!" He raised his hand, and Ludwig did all he could not to close his eyes.

The men were shot, the woman right along with them. The world was an ugly place, but a man's heart was uglier.

* * *

Aletheon stared at his reflection with the intensity of the sun. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, but he had a sinking feeling that he wouldn't find it. He had grown since that day all those years ago, and he was more of a man than a boy, but he was no less beautiful. He was the perfect example of a German aristocrat, the man that society strove to be. Platinum blonde hair, royal blue eyes, fair skin, a defined jaw, high cheeks, long, slender figure, he was the poster boy for aristocracy, especially in a world where his nation sought to dominate all others. But, as he stared into the mirror, he knew something was missing. He just didn't know what.

"Aletheon," a deep voice that carried no sign of the age of its owner interrupted his thoughts. Aletheon turned around, "yes, father?" His father stood in the doorway, leaning heavily on a polished wooden cane. Yet, he still managed to look like the proudest man alive. He was old, and that was obvious, but he was still young in his thinking. He had an open mind and a sharp tongue, and that made him an excellent business man. "You've been staring at yourself for ten minutes now," Mr. Vulkan stated, his grey bushy eyebrows raised skeptically. "Vanity is dangerous, boy." Aletheon flashed a small smile, "I do not stare for vanity, father. I suppose it does seem that way, but no, I am not interested in looking any prettier than I already do."

Mr. Vulkan laughed, "ridiculous child, you would be deadly then." Aletheon pulled out a chair for his father at the tea table. "I am a child no more, father. Come sit down. I'll pour you some tea." Mr. Vulkan walked over, tall and proud despite the devastating limp he had from the world war. He eased himself down into the chair, still sitting up straight as a board. Mr. Vulkan thought highly of himself and knew how important appearances were, but he did not let his pride blind him. Aletheon admired his father greatly.

"I have something to tell you, boy," Mr. Vulkan peered over the edge of his steaming tea cup, fine china made in Berlin. The midnight blue of the cup, with its white lilies painted on, mirrored the old man's dark blue eyes. Aletheon sat across from his father, pouring his own tea. He waited for his father to speak.

"I'm sure you heard about the rebellion against the Nazi regime," Mr. Vulkan began, leaning back in his seat to relax a bit, but looking no less prideful. Aletheon nodded, wondering where this conversation was going. Mr. Vulkan looked thoughtful, rubbing his stubbly chin (he believed that facial hair was for people who had no time to shave, but even he grew a 5 o'clock shadow). He set his teacup down with a soft clink. "We are members of the Nazi party, and I believe that it is our duty to crush this rebellion. How will we dominate the world when we cannot control our own people?"

"Father," Aletheon spoke softly at the pause. "We already make the finest weaponry in the world for our nation, and our war machines improve every day. Our planes, tanks, mortars, cannons, ships, every weapon we make, it's all improving by the hour. We have improved the economy of Germany, and we have sensitive information from other nations from our business contacts all over the world. What more can we do?"

"We can fight." It was a very simple phrase, but it sent chills down Aletheon's spine. His father was far too old to fight in the war, so that meant- "don't look so morbid, Aletheon, I wouldn't throw you in the trenches under men who have no idea how trench warfare works." Aletheon let out a sigh of relief at his father's words, but the relief was soon replaced with apprehension. "If you don't want me to battle in the trenches, father, then what is it you want me to do?"

Mr. Vulkan's eyes were alight with amusement and excitement and his lips twitched up into a mischievous smile. "Don't be silly, my son. You deserve only the best. You've already worked with the group before, and you know many of them personally. I think it's a perfect fit for you, my boy. I'm putting you in the SS."

A wide grin spread across Aletheon's face. Finally, something that was worth his time.


	3. Chapter 3

Gilbert hated the trenches with every fiber of his being, but it was better than being a test subject for some crazy old creep who called himself a scientist. Just because he looked a little different didn't give them the right to treat him worse than an animal. Fortunately, his brother was perfect enough for the both of them, so he got out of syringes and scalpels and got thrown into bullets and toxic gas.

"Shit!" Gilbert cursed as a mortar shell landed just over the lip of the trench, showering him in dirt and shrapnel. He winced as his cheek was cut. "Damn British bastards!" He put his helmet on and grabbed his machine gun, loading it quickly. The days didn't go by easy in the trench, but Gilbert kept his spirits up. He could always be a test subject.

Round after round was fired, and there was nothing to show for it but another few holes in a field of death. No man's land was a lonely place, but the trenches were even lonelier. The other soldiers avoided Gilbert, because of his albino genes, but Gilbert didn't care because Ludwig still wrote letters. Ludwig was safe. Ludwig loved him for who he was. That's what brothers did.

Nightfall came around and the sounds of war were replaced by silence. Of course, there were the general sounds of the men in the trench, but the world was silent, holding its breath, waiting for something to happen, waiting for morning when the endless cacophony would begin anew, and more men would die, but for what? The right to say that the enemy had lost more men than the fatherland? Control over a barren stretch of ground that would never see life again? More men would die, just to be replaced by new men, who would die and be replaced; it was a vicious cycle. Gilbert rubbed his eyes, not caring about the dirt all over his face. He was so tired, the world seemed to be crushing him, but he was just one of millions caught up in the stupid war of domination.

"Beilschmidt, you're on night watch!" _Shit,_ Gilbert scowled. That was the third night in a row. He knew they were all biased against him, but this was ridiculous. "Yes sir," Gilbert grumbled and sat down on a familiar dirt seat. He couldn't even see over the trench from his position, but he knew nothing would happen anyway. He had just closed his eyes, resigned to a restless night, when he heard footsteps coming towards him. He opened one eye to see his favourite person in the trenches: the delivery boy.

"Letter for you, sir." The boy handed him a white envelope with his name and identification number on it, with Ludwig's name, number, and station in the corner. Gilbert thanked the boy and held the letter to his face, smelling the paper. It was an odd thing to do, but after endless ages of smelling nothing but dirt, gas, gunpowder, and death, the smell of paper from far away was a beautiful thing.

 _Dear Gilbert,_ the letter said once Gilbert opened it. _I'm sorry I didn't write last week, we've been busy here in Berlin. The rebellion has finally ended. We flushed them out of the slums last week, and today we shot all of the survivors as examples of the power of the fatherland and what happens when someone disobeys. The people cheered, now they would have food and safety again. Now we can focus on ridding our great nation of the other filth that plagues it; Jews. Once we are clean inside, asserting our authority as the master race over the rest of the world will be easy._ Gilbert paused for a moment, shaking his head. His brother truly believed that what they were doing was right. Gilbert wasn't so sure.

 _How is life in the trench? I've been doing my best to see you out of there, but it is difficult. The best I might be able to do would be to make you an intelligence agent, though you would be easily recognizable if the enemy were to see you even once. Perhaps the trenches is the best place for you right now. Once this war is over, you will come home, and we'll eat together every afternoon._

 _Answering your last letter, yes, Mr. Vulkan has agreed to let his son jin the SS. This is an international show of support by the business superpower for the Nazi regime, and Vulkan's contacts won't risk losing his business and will show their support as well. As for young Vulkan, he is an intelligent young man with a sharp tongue. I believe he'll be quite useful to us, if for no other reason than for gathering information. It seems that no one can tell him no._

 _Enough about that, has your command been too harsh on you? I can easily fix that. I've heard that you were once on night guard for five nights in a row. That is unacceptable. Please, let me know if this happens again. Your letters to me are not read, thankfully, by anyone except for me._

 _I have to stop here, I have a lot of work to do. Securing Poland is not easy._

 _With love, Ludwig._

Gilbert smiled, turning the letter over and retrieving a pen from his pocket. He wrote his own letter, just a few quick notes informing his brother of his situation and congratulating him on the recent accomplishments, on the back of the letter. He then put it back on the envelope and wrote 'return to sender' on the front. He resealed it and flagged down the delivery boy.

Gilbert spent the rest of the night with a warm feeling in his stomach. Surely, things would be fine once again, once all this was over. There was no way that they would lose the war this time, right?


	4. Chapter 4

It was a Wednesday*, the day Feliks lost everything. Well, he had lost everything a while before, but today it was official. It was an overcast day, and chilly, since autumn was taking over the land. The wind was harsh, piercing his thin sweater as he went, but he hardly noticed the cold. His eyes burned as the wind dried them while he ran, but he didn't dare blink. His sights were set on his flag, the flag of Poland that resided over the city of Warsaw. It was slowly being lowered.

The crowd immediately around the flag were composed of German soldiers, but the people watched from their homes with despair in their eyes. Feliks stopped running as the flag was ripped from the pole and tossed onto the ground. He could only watch from the middle of that barren, lonely street as the German flag was raised over the city, _his_ city, his capital, signifying the official fall of Warsaw into german hands. Feliks believed that there was no hope any more.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" A deep voice beside Feliks rang in his ears, in crude but accurate Polish. He knew that a German soldier was talking to him, but he couldn't wrench his eyes from the flag on the ground, crumpled and dirty, the last symbol of hope for his people ground into nothing. A large hand was placed on his shoulder. "Do not worry, once this war is over, the Polish will be treated well." Feliks didn't believe it. He knew it wasn't true.

Feliks sank to his knees, his hands resting on the paved road beneath him. Tears dripped down, landing on his hands and the pavement around him. A soft sob escaped Feliks, and his body quivered. The German soldier was scowling, Feliks could feel it, but there was little he could do to stop crying. What else does someone do when there is no hope?

There was nothing left but despair now, but hey, at least it wasn't Monday.

* * *

Aletheon discovered what he was missing as he stared into the mirror. Nothing had changed, except that instead of a suit, Aletheon wore a sharp black uniform. "A purpose," Aletheon told himself as he watched himself in the mirror. Now a member of the SS, the elite of the elite in Germany, Aletheon felt like he had a purpose. Before, it was all little things, preparing to run his father's company, aiding the Nazis in weeding out traitors and criminals, all the tiny odds and ends of life, but now he had a purpose.

Aletheon looked away from the mirror when the door to the room opened. Ludwig Beilschmidt, old acquaintance and now his Obersturmbannfurhur**, or his Senior Storm Leader of the battalion unit. With his father's influence, Aletheon had not started at the bottom, instead placed into the rank of Obersturmfurhur*** under Ludwig.

"Vulkan," Ludwig's voice was one that demanded respect wherever he went, but he seemed friendly at the moment. He held out his hand, "welcome to the SS." Aletheon shook it firmly, "thank you, sir." Ludwig smiled just a bit, his sky blue eyes alight with amusement and nostalgia. "It's good to work together again." Aletheon nodded in agreement.

Ludwig released his hand and took on a formal tone. "We're heading to Poland to crush the last of the rebellion there. There is only one group left, numbered some 4,500, but we will crush them easily. Do you have any battle experience?" Aletheon chewed his lip thoughtfully. "Sort of. I've never been in the heat of battle myself, but I'm handy with a sniper rifle. My farthest accurate shot so far is nearly a mile." Ludwig let out a soft breath through his nose. "That's good. We can certainly use that. The man we're after, the leader of the operation, is a man called Admiral Unruh." He held up a picture of the Polish man. "We'll station you about a half mile away from the fight. The SS will not be fighting, just providing support. If you see this man, take him out. Understood?" "Yes sir." Aletheon felt excited.

"Good," Ludwig turned away to leave the room. "We leave in two hours. Are you ready?" "Yes sir," Aletheon responded with certainty and determination. Ludwig left the room. Aletheon turned back to the mirror, "yes, a purpose is just what I needed."

* * *

Disappointment had a bitter taste. Ludwig had hoped to capture the Admiral to make a public display, but Vulkan's claims about being a good sniper were true, and the leader of the rebellion had a bullet right through his left eye that tore out the back of his head and made a bloody mess. Ludwig sighed as he stood over the bodies, then turned to face the six Polish survivors. Once again, mercy was not his to give, though he alone gave the order for their execution.

When Ludwig returned to Warsaw with his battalion, he was welcomed as a hero, since he received the credit for leading the troops and the death of the rebellion, but even beer couldn't quell his disappointment, which was mostly with himself. He hadn't written to Gilbert in nearly three weeks. He knew that Gilbert understood, but it was still a hard pill to swallow.

Now, Ludwig had to prepare for the invasion of Denmark. Well, technically he could start the next morning, but he didn't really feel like celebrating. Apparently, neither did his newest member of the battalion. Vulkan sat beside him in the corner of the room, watching the men drink and celebrate. Ludwig raised an eyebrow, "not going to drink and enjoy the Polish women?" He had thought for certain that they would be all over the young man, who was easily the most attractive of them all. Vulkan shook his head, "I would, but I'm not really in the mood." Ludwig leaned back in his chair. "We won a great victory today. What's soured your mood?"

Vulkan let out a heavy sigh. "It's a bit complicated." Ludwig guessed, "is it because you didn't receive full credit for the death of the Admiral?" Vulkan waved his hand dismissively, "not at all. It's just that there was a Danish scout over the hill, but he vanished before I could line up the shot." Ludwig was surprised. The hills had been nearly a mile and a half away from the battle field, which made it two miles away from Vulkan. "You have good eyes, Vulkan."

The young man shrugged. "I do." He put on a smile, "don't let me sour your mood. What are we doing next, Sir?" Ludwig looked down at the map in front of him. "We have new orders. Next week, we move towards Denmark, but you'll go sooner. I'll need you to get some information for us. Do you think you can do that?" Vulkan peered at the map. "What for? I need a target, you know." "Locations," Ludwig replied. "We need to know where the barracks, armory, and any other important military units are, and we need to know the military leaders. Germany will be striking Norway at the same time, and we can't afford to call for reinforcements. Our battalion will be travelling ahead, but you need to be in there first. The invasion is planned for April, but you'll be going in two days. You'll need to be undercover. Your father tells me you speak Danish." Vulkan nodded, "I do, I speak many languages."

Ludwig looked back at the map. "This is a heavy task. Are you up for it?" Vulkan grinned, his pretty face lighting up with excitement. "Sir, you could send me to hell and I'd still be excited. I'm always dying for something to do." Ludwig realized then that Vulkan himself was dangerous, not just his father's company, but at least he was on their side.

It was also the moment that Ludwig realized Vulkan was hiding something. He just wasn't sure what it was.

* * *

 **Notes**

*refers to the official fall of Warsaw on September 27, 1939

**Equivalent to the rank of Lieutenant Colonel, the rank above Major

***Equivalent to Lieutenant Officer


End file.
